


The Stranger That You Keep

by callmelyss



Series: The Stranger That You Keep [1]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Boners, Ben POV, Cadet Hux, Comfort, Cuddling, Han Solo trying his best, Hux's Sad Childhood, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Side AU, M/M, Padawan Ben, Pre-Slash, Scarification, Sharing a Bed, benarmie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 22:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15398562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/pseuds/callmelyss
Summary: He emerges quickly from the dark corridor that way, plasma weapon drawn but not ignited, expecting mercenaries or rival smugglers or kidnappers. Bala-Tik. The Hutts. Bounty hunters, blasters aimed. Anyone, anything but a disheveled, unarmed kid his own age, gawking, wide-eyed at Ben’s sudden appearance, his hand in theFalcon’s small conservator.“Kriff,” he says and tries to run.—Ben Solo discovers a stowaway aboard theMillennium Falcon.





	The Stranger That You Keep

**Author's Note:**

> For the [KyluxXOXO Summer Challenge](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/KyluxSummerFest2018) Week Two: Sweet Donuts. Prompts: Tattoo, Sugar, Bed Sharing. Was _meant_ to be a drabble, but it grew a plot. Cheeky of it, I know.
> 
> FYI: as is often the convention with cadet Hux/padawan Ben, I believe, I've adjusted their ages so they're both in their late teens. There is also just the briefest mention of benpoe.

It’s not quite a sound that wakes Ben, chasing him from a restless sleep. Maybe only the memory of one, maybe the dream of one, he doesn’t know. 

Still, he sits up fast, almost cracking his forehead on the compartment above his bunk. 

He frowns at the gray durasteel when his eyes focus, confused for the beat before he remembers he’s not in his hut at the Jedi Temple. Dry, recycled air churns around him instead of the constant, clinging humidity he’s grown accustomed to. Thrumming engines, not the steady drone of insects, the burble of water. He can’t feel his fellow students around him either, their drowsy, blurry signatures in the Force, or Luke’s soothing, cool energy, like snowmelt. But there is, if Ben reaches, his father, the worn leather presence of him up in the cockpit.  

His hand goes to the place where his padawan’s braid should be, behind his ear, but he finds only a tuft of hair, shorter than the rest, newly clipped. The corresponding rawness in his chest, remembered.

Right. 

He’s on the _Falcon_. 

There it is, again—a sound, in fact, this time. Something rattles out in the common area. Maybe he’d failed to tie a crate down properly after they stopped for supplies in the Outer Rim. An unforgivable offense on a smuggler’s ship, he’s well aware. If his father’s noticed, he’ll hear about it over breakfast. It’s just the two of them, him and Han, Chewie visiting family on Kashyyyk for a few weeks. Unplanned. 

Everyone’s treating him so carefully. It’ll be like that for a long while, he knows. Guarded looks. Conversations cut short when he enters a room. It already rankles. But. 

He tugs on that little piece of hair, the way he used to grab his braid. _Luke’s face, when he clipped it off._

A dull thud follows, and Ben tenses, waiting. Nothing. Han must be asleep in the pilot’s chair, chin tipped back, snoring. He does that sometimes when Ben’s aboard. 

He stands, pulling the extra blanket from the end of his bunk. They never mention it, how Han wakes up with it draped over him, or how he sleeps better on this ship than he ever did at home with the three of them. That isn’t their strong suit, discussing things. And Ben doesn’t know how they’ll navigate the issue of _this_ , his fate, what happened, what’s next, but he does think that it will involve very little talking.

He’s almost stepped out into the lounge when he hears another rustling noise, making him pause. He checks again, finding Han, his mind quiet with dreamless sleep, in his chair, the console softly lighting up around him. His ship.

Ben shifts away, stretching his consciousness into the darkness and— _there_.

There’s someone else on the _Falcon_.

Luke didn’t take his lightsaber from him, leaving him that at least, and he reaches for it as he steps into the shadows, silent in bare feet. An attacker seems unlikely all the way out here, but he’s learned the hard way that there are always people hunting for his family, for his mother and father and uncle, and now him. _It’s not fair_ , a small, petulant voice whines, as it often has, with its tally of everything he’s been denied, from a proper childhood to real friends to anything more than shy, stolen kisses to this, now, the life he was supposed to lead, vanished in an eye blink. 

 _But it never has been fair_ , he reminds that sulky, wheedling part of him. _For any of them_.

He emerges quickly from the dark corridor that way, plasma weapon drawn but not ignited, expecting mercenaries or rival smugglers or kidnappers. Bala-Tik. The Hutts. Bounty hunters, blasters aimed. Anyone, anything but a disheveled, unarmed kid his own age, gawking, wide-eyed at Ben’s sudden appearance, his hand in the Falcon’s small conservator.

“ _Kriff_ ,” he says and tries to run.

Ben doesn’t think; he reaches out with the Force and grabs him, stilling him where he stands. The boy struggles, though, against the hold, minute twitches in his arms and legs and hands. His face contorts, furious, and flushes deep red under a layer of grime.

“Let me _go_ ,” he demands. Imperious.

“ _Quiet_ ,” Ben hisses, sparing a glance towards the cockpit. Nothing. “You don’t want to wake the—the crew.”

 _Always pretend you’re part of a large group. Make them think they’re completely outgunned until they figure out they’re not. Hopefully after you're gone._ One of Han’s favorite lessons.

“Crew?” the boy scoffs, although he lowers his voice. His upper lip curls. Despite the dirt and grease, he has the face for it, sharp features, pale disdainful eyes. Voice snotty. That rolled Old Republican ‘r.’ Not like any urchin Ben’s ever known. “I count one sneaking freak and one sad, old pirate.”

“Hey,” Ben snaps. Defensive. “Mind your manners. You’re the sneak here. And that old pirate will still toss you out the airlock for stowing away, don’t think he won’t.”

In truth, Han will probably drop the kid off at their next stop with twenty credits, a new shirt, and some food—he’s done it before—but there’s no reason to tell this haughty interloper that, especially if he’s going to be such an asshole about it.

The boy subsides somewhat at the threat; he even has the good sense to look afraid. He hadn’t before. “I’m sorry, all right? I just—I needed a ride.” 

“A ride to where?”

“Anywhere,” he says.

And Ben can see he means it. “Why this ship then?” 

“Didn’t think anyone would notice me on such a junk heap,” he sneers.  

“ _Manners_ , _”_ Ben reminds him. Shakes him none too gently with the Force. Not especially _of the Light_ , that move, but that’s not his concern anymore, and Luke isn’t here to chastise him. “That goes double for the _Falcon,_ understand?”

“Apologies,” he says through gritted teeth. He pales under the smudges on his cheeks. “But if I’m kinder to the junk heap, might you consider letting me go?”

Ben considers him, trying to decide whether he's a potential threat. They’re almost of a height, but he’s much thinner, almost scrawny. Is wearing some sort of gray uniform Ben doesn’t recognize, torn at the shoulder where an insignia might have been, ripped at the knees, parts of it clearly missing. His hair, dark red in the low lighting, has been buzzed short in the back, cut longer on the top, the forward brush hanging un-combed over his eyes. His face looks bruised, mottled, beneath the dirt; dark crescents crook below his eyes. And Ben doesn’t have to have seen himself lately to recognize his expression. _Hunted_ — _or_ _haunted._ Not just an urchin, then, scraping away a rough existence in a dingy starport somewhere. A fugitive.

“You won’t run?” 

He shakes his head, resigned. “Hardly anywhere for me to go, is there? And you can do—that. _How_ are you doing that, anyway?” He sounds mostly curious at this last, although his eyes stay angry. 

“The Force,” Ben says, surprised he has to explain it.

He scoffs again. “That’s just an old wive’s tale, isn’t it?”   

“You tell me.” He shrugs and releases his hold.

The boy almost stumbles, unprepared to take his own weight onto his feet. He pauses to confirm his freedom, testing the motion of his limbs. Stops when he catches sight of Ben. Bares his teeth at him, not quite a smile. Feral. “So. The airlock, is it?” Lightly. Glib. Even though he’s shaking.

An arrogant asshole, definitely. But maybe a bit brave, too. Feisty, even.

He doesn’t want to like him. _Doesn’t_ like him.

He could wake Han. Should, if only to let him know what’s happened, let him handle this. It’s his ship after all, and Ben has his own problems, more than his share, as usual. Instead, he says, “How about some food? That’s what you were looking for, right? Why you left the—I’m guessing the aft smuggling compartments, right? You were hungry?” 

He looks down and away then, arrogance bleeding away in an instant, his face much younger in its absence. He nods without meeting Ben’s gaze. 

He feels his irritation easing in turn. “When did you eat last?” 

“Three—four cycles,” he mumbles, barely audible. Rubbing his arm with one hand.

Ben’s stomach cramps in sympathy. He’s been hungry more or less constantly since his last growth spurt and that’s with three square meals a day at the Temple. “Here, sit, I’ll—“ He goes to the conservator, rummaging through its contents, not stopping to check if he obeys. 

But he _is_ sitting there, back straight, hands folded in his lap, posture surprisingly proper when Ben returns with his haul. He dumps what he’s found on the table: a handful of ration bars, leftover salamander sticks, nerf nuggets, and half of a bantha burger from their last world-side stop, two slightly withered Corellian apples, and a pair of sweet rolls, shining and sticky with Akivan honey. Ben’s favorite, a gift, no doubt, Chewie left before he departed. He has always kept some around for him, even after Ben went to school.

The kid stares at him and then at the food, then back again. He waits for Ben’s nod of permission before he grabs a ration bar and tears into it, barely peeling the wrapper off before he crams it whole into his mouth. His eyes fall shut; he sighs, relief easing the tension and unpleasant pinch in his face. He slows down by the third bar, pausing to send furtive, wary glances in Ben’s direction, still cautious. Swallows before saying, softly, “Thank you.” Maybe more than just the dry meal thickening his voice.

He rises to get him a glass of water and fills one for himself, too. “I’m Ben,” he tells him. 

“Hu—“ he starts to say. Corrects himself: “Armitage.”

“Nice to meet you, Armitage.” 

He nods, popping a salamander stick between his lips. “Where  _are_ we headed? If I may ask?”  

“The long way to Coruscant, most likely.” He suppresses a sigh. He won’t be able to avoid his mother forever, even with his father’s assistance.

“The Core?” Armitage asks, startled.

Ben hums an affirmative. “Is that where you’re from?” Adds, in response to his apparent confusion, “Your accent.”

“Oh,” he shakes his head. “No. The people who raised me, this is how they spoke.“

“So you’re from Kadesh Prime,” he guesses.

“Where?”

“The planet we just left,” Ben explains, frowning. 

He bites into one of the apples instead of answering right away. “Just ended up there. Hopped a transport from…I think it was Cantonica.”

It’s not even a good lie. “Cantonica is on the other side of the Outer Rim.”

“Is it? Then I must be mistaken.” Armitage’s gaze skitters away from his. He’s studying the table. Intently.

“Hey,” Ben says. Waving a hand in front of his face to get his attention. “Whatever or whoever you’re trying to get away from, we won’t take you back there, I promise. You don’t have to lie about it.”

“Who says I’m trying to get away from anyone?” He’s all but stopped eating now. Is worrying a hangnail with his thumb. Scowling again. 

He thinks about the last several days of his own. Confessing to Luke about the voice in his head. Their joint meditation. How violently it had almost ended and worse, maybe, how it did. How cut off he feels, now, from any voice but his own.  _Luke’s face_. Ben’s frantic message to his father afterward. Han had come when he needed him. Mostly Ben hadn’t doubted him. Mostly. He touches the place where his padawan’s braid should be. “Maybe I know something about trying to get away,” he offers.

“Maybe you do,” he allows. Tries: “Only. It was supposed to be different. They said. But it wasn’t. They _lied_.” He shakes his head, unable to get out more than that. “It doesn’t matter. Fuck it. Just—I’m not going back. I won’t.” Vehement. Fists clenching. Eyes very bright.

“Okay, okay. So. You won’t.” Ben doesn’t press for more, doesn’t know that he needs to, recognizing, if not the particular story, then the feeling behind it. _Desperate_. _Terrified_. He reaches across the table. Clasps his arm, gently, before letting go. “It’s all right.”

Luke would probably get it out of him—or his mother. They have a way of inviting confidences. Personally, he prefers talking to Chewie, Shyriiwook useful for uncomfortable revelations and large emotions, expressive in a way Basic isn’t. Or else his non-conversations with his father. Companionable silences. A hand clapped on his shoulder. 

Although they haven’t managed even that yet, the silence on the _Falcon_ beginning to stifle after a week.

Which is all to say: he knows sometimes it’s easier not to talk about it.

Instead of pushing, he slides one of the sweet rolls across to his unlikely guest. Armitage watches him, more interested than standoffish now. He looks so much softer when he isn’t glowering. “Go ahead. They’re good. My uncle got them for me.” He picks up the second one and takes a large bite, demonstrating. Sugar surges into his mouth, pure, comforting, good.

For his part, Armitage pinches off an edge and brings it to his lips. Nibbling. Delicate, now that he’s no longer half-starving. He makes an appreciative sound. “Your uncle?” he asks.

“Uncle Chewie. He’s a Wookiee,” Ben informs him.

“Maternal or fraternal?”

It takes him a moment to recognize the joke, a jab against his height or his hair or both, but when he does, he makes the rudest gesture he knows, although it’s much more offensive on Mon Calamari. Still, the intent must be clear, because he laughs. They both do.

Armitage tears off a larger piece, viscous honey dripping over his thumb. He licks it clean, abandoning his unusually prim manners for the sweet. “So, Wookiee uncle. And the old pirate?”

“My dad.”

“Ah,” he says. “A pirate family.” He adds, in an undertone, as though he may not mean Ben to hear, “Must be nice.”

“Hm?”

“That—this—“ he gestures around at the ship. “With your father. It sounds—nice.” Not mocking anymore, not at all, face grave. Sincere. _Longing_.

 _You could join us_ , Ben doesn’t say. _Could always use another pirate._

“Even though it’s a junk heap?” he teases instead. 

“Even so.” Armitage smiles. Or, close to a smile. Either way, he looks nice. Maybe even friendly. Sugar glitters at the corner of his mouth.

Awfully tempting to lean across the table and lick it away. Ben swallows. He is, he realizes all at once, sitting here all alone with a boy his own age, one he might easily call pretty, especially when he isn’t sneering, whose voice is low, rich. Who—

He clears his throat and stands, abrupt. “There’s a sonic, when you’re finished. I mean, if you want. Not that. Only I’m guessing, er, you might. I’ll get you some clothes. Something to sleep in.” 

Armitage frowns. “What about—?” He inclines his head toward the cockpit. _No airlock?_

“I’ll tell him when he’s awake. Unless you’re planning on stabbing me in my sleep?”

If he wanted to hurt them, he’s had ample opportunity, of course. And scrawny as he is, he’s probably good with a knife. Scrappy.

“Only if you give me a reason to.” His mouth quirks. 

Ben returns to his bunk and paws through his bag, packed in a hurry, trying to find something that might fit, settling on a worn shirt and pants that are a few years old, short and snug on him now. Ignoring the way his pulse is jittering, suddenly. It’s not that he hasn’t—he kissed Poe for the first time two summers ago on Yavin. Only that feels like ancient history at the moment.

 _He’s a stowaway. A stranger_ , a stern voice, sounding entirely too much like his mother, reminds him. His uncle’s chimes in, remonstrating: _And you have bigger problems, Ben_.

He doesn’t want to think about that either. He should be at the Temple, preparing himself for morning meditation. Stretching. Breathing. Helping the little ones get their breakfasts. Watching the sun come up over the hill, golden on the stone. He should be there. Wants to be there. Also to never go back, never acknowledge what nearly happened. _Luke's face_. Wants to stay here, on this ship, with his father. Wants to press the pale-eyed boy waiting outside against the wall, kiss him until they’re both gasping.  

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

He all but tosses the clothes at Armitage, who looks puzzled as he ducks into the tiny ‘fresher. 

In the cockpit, Han is sound asleep despite everything, still looking weary all the same, the lines around his eyes and mouth carved deeper than they had been the last time Ben saw him.

He’d come when Ben called, no questions asked. Spoke in low tones with Luke. He knows what happened, but he hasn’t asked. Could be he doesn’t want to make him think of it. Could be he’s deciding what to say. Not many people think of Han Solo as a careful man, but he always has been to Ben.

He unfolds the extra blanket, the one he’d meant to bring earlier, before, and spreads it over his father. Han shifts in his sleep, murmuring nonsense, and settles. Tomorrow. They’ll talk. Ben will tell him everything, he decides. The voice. Snoke. Everything.

For the moment, there’s still the boy in the ‘fresher to deal with, and his mouth goes a little dry when Armitage emerges, hair fluffy around his ears, face clean and nearly glowing, save for a smattering of bruises along his cheek, his neck. Ben’s fingers twitch. He wants to trace those marks, wants to smooth bacta across his skin and brush over his bottom lip while he asks him what happened. He curls his hands, feeling foolish. 

But something else catches his attention. A mark on Armitage’s shoulder, where the shirt has slipped off, too big for him.

“What’s that?” Ben asks.

Alarm flashes across his features and he tugs the collar straight. Not before Ben catches a glimpse of sharp lines. A tattoo, maybe. Or a brand. “It’s nothing,” he insists. “Thank you for the clothes. Should I sleep out here?”

And, kriff, he hadn’t considered _where_. Technically, there’s his father’s bunk and Chewie’s, but he knows neither of them would appreciate a stranger sleeping there. He could give Armitage his bed, but if Han discovered him before he could explain, that might end poorly. 

Which means.

He coughs. Shakes his head. “You can—um, we’ll share.”

An understatement to call it a tight fit, his bunk barely large enough for one lanky teenager, let alone two. It doesn’t help that Ben arranges them back to back, Armitage squashed between him and the wall, and he can feel the sharp jut of his shoulder blades against his own as he wriggles, attempting to get comfortable. Finally, there’s a sigh behind him, disgruntled, and another tumult of movement as he turns over. Then, a skinny arm wraps around his waist, and Armitage snuggles up to his back, nose pressed against the nape of his neck, one foot thrown over his shin. “There,” he mutters. “Better.”

“Oh,” Ben says. Trying very hard not to move just now. “Is it?”

He yawns, humid breath stirring his hair. “We used to sleep like this at the Aca—where I’m from. All the time. When the lights went out, we’d sneak into each other’s cots. Warmer that way. But you had to make it back by morning bed check or you’d get lashes for it. Fraternization.” He snorts.

 _Lashes_. Ben shudders. “That sounds terrible.” 

Armitage shifts, pressing closer, although that doesn’t seem possible, given how near he was already. “It was. I mean, it wasn’t all bad. We had each other. Only, after a while—we had to—”

He doesn’t finish. Ben doesn’t know if he wants him to, if he wants to know. Thinks, again, of the little ones. What _he_ might have done.

“How did you get away?”

“Incapacitated a guard,” he says. Very quiet now. “Hot-wired a shuttle.” 

He tells him a little more of it, the sort of story you can only share in the dark and under the covers. His flight from—wherever it was. The Academy, he calls it. Not the New Republican Academy, Ben gathers. How he found a station and ditched the shuttle. Took a transport to one planet, another to Kadesh Prime. Saw the _Falcon_ at the starport and snuck on board.

“It’s not really a junk heap,” Armitage says. Gently squeezing Ben’s middle, as if in apology. “I liked the look of it. It seemed…right. Somehow. Like where I should go. I know it sounds strange. I can't explain it.”

 _The Force_ , Ben doesn’t suggest. Not sure if he believes that now. Tells him a little of his own story until he drifts off, how his father had to take him away from school. How he had disappointed Luke. What that might mean. What he fears it means.

It’s a long while before he sleeps. He lies awake, listening to the steady sound of Armitage’s breathing, feeling it against his skin. He traces it to his presence in the Force, the particular color of his energy, shifting between blue and green and gray. There’s a sort of shadow around him, too, something of the Dark, not clinging as tightly as it might, instead like a cloud that’s recently broken up, but not yet dispersed. Maybe matching the one that’s been circling _him_ , Ben muses. 

Unlikely, Luke would say, but the thought appeals to him, that he might have a kind of mirror, or else a complement, alike but inverse, and that they found each other. It could explain, at least, the connection he feels. Why it seems like he might know him, this boy he’s just met.

Could be, too, he's trying to replace what he lost.

He must doze eventually, because he’s woken abruptly, by the feeling of a struggle behind him, thrashing arms and legs. Catches a flash or two of nightmare, other adolescents in the same gray uniform Armitage was wearing earlier. Their faces cruel. Hungry. Jagged knives in their hands. Cheering— _no_ , chanting. Blood running hot down his arm.

He whimpers.

Ben turns in his grasp, pulling him to his chest without thinking, sending the calmest images he knows, warm sun and wind in the grass and that rosy, centered feeling, the one Luke taught him. Adds his understanding, wordless, unconditional. Stroking his back, his hair. He twitches another time or two, then subsides. 

Oblivion overtakes Ben that way, too, ultimately, his hand still moving over Armitage’s back, slow and slowing.

 

* * *

 

He comes out of sleep gradually and then all at once. Not forgetting where he is this time, although stunned to find a warm body draped over his own, a nose whistling softly under his ear, a hand curled loosely in his shirt. He flushes, recognizing a certain heaviness between his legs. Not urgent or uncomfortable. But. He’s grateful Armitage doesn’t seem to be awake yet. Tries to will away that—interest.

 _Uncle Luke drinking milk, Uncle Luke drinking milk, Uncle Luke drinking milk_ , he repeats to himself, a tried and true mantra. _Blue running through his beard. The way he smacks his lips after. Disgusting. Yes._

Finally, the feeling of it wanes, although Armitage shifts in his sleep and sighs, almost undoing it all again. He nuzzles his cheek against Ben’s neck. Apparently content. 

He squints down at him, the parts he can see. His shirt’s slipped back off his shoulder, showing more of the mark from before, just discernible in the low light of the room. A hexagon surrounding a circle of spikes. He swallows. Realizing it's not a tattoo, but a scar, the shape carved into him. Pink and raised on smooth skin.

His arm had been bleeding—in that dream. Cut open by others like him. What else they might have done to each other, he doesn’t want to know.

 _Whatever you’re running from_ , Ben thinks. _I’m glad you did_. He chances kissing his temple. Tries not to think too much about kissing his lips. 

There’s movement in the doorway, the dry sound of a throat clearing. His attention snaps to his father, who’s leaning there looking…exasperated and amused, although not surprised. Han Solo, he knows, is a difficult man to shock. And no stranger to strays in his own time. 

There’s something else, too. Something muted around his eyes, more complicated than affection. Sadder than that. _Wistful_ , maybe _._

 _Needed our help_ , Ben mouths to him, not quite whispering. Adds,  _Sorry_.

 _We’ll talk later_ , Han replies. _All of us_. Gesturing at the two of them. His expression: significant. Almost disturbingly paternal. Ben’s seen it maybe two or three times in his life.

He gulps. An honest-to-stars talk with his father. Won’t that be something. 

Then, they’re overdue.

 _Okay_ , Ben agrees.

His father gives them one last wry smirk before leaving, boots echoing down the corridor.

He reaches up again with his free hand, finding that place where his braid should be. Everything he was promised. Everything he was supposed to become, cut away in an instant. He’d done it himself while Luke looked on, grieving. _His face_. But easier to do that than—

Armitage resettles in his grip, murmuring against his skin; he must have tightened his hold on him without realizing. Still, he doesn’t seem distressed, isn’t protesting. 

So strange to have found him here, without searching, for him to wander onto the one ship in the whole galaxy where Ben might hold him while he sleeps and chase away his nightmares. Where they might whisper in the dark.

It would seem like destiny if he didn’t know better. _That's only a story other people tell you._

Probably, it’s just luck.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Joe Pug song "Hymn #101."
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> ([tumblr](https://callmelyss.tumblr.com))


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